Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  Tom wouldn’t describe his cousin as ever ‘running wild’, just that he had a very unusual mindset.

  “Uncle Derek, Connor might be a bit crazy but my cousin never does something without thinking it through. Besides, he loves you, loves the family. That’s why he’s kept his mum’s name—to insulate us from whatever he may be doing down there.”

  “I am not sure. Maybe he has kept his mam’s name because he resents us.”

  18

  The raised voices awoke Emily. She had fallen asleep after a particularly long shift in one of the back rooms. It had only meant to be for twenty minutes or so before the half an hour drive back to her flat. Wiping off the saliva from her cheek, she checked her watch—she’d been asleep for over an hour.

  The two voices were in the midst of a heated discussion. Did she go out now, or stay until they left? She decided to wait; if she went out now, she’d be questioned as to why she was still here.

  She had an idea. She switched the kettle on, which was half full of water. Hopefully, the sound of it boiling and its eventual click would be enough for them to get the hint and leave without any embarrassment.

  She recognised Michael’s raised voice. “This is the fucking second time in the last two weeks. How many fucking times do these people need telling that these donors are not supposed to be people who are missed!”

  “You’re preaching to the converted. One of the world’s most famous climbers in the world for Christ sake.”

  Emily realised the other party was Shelia Williams’s, the attractive, red-headed anaesthesiologist.

  “It’s typical of those people—the fucking short-sightedness of it. It’s greed. They think of more donors being more money for them. Don’t they realise that if we’re caught, then there’s no revenue anymore? Not that they would need money in prison anyway.”

  “I agree. Have you spoken to the South African?”

  “Yes. He should be here shortly to take away the body.”

  “But it’s not just their end. I get nervous of the new girl. What’s her name?”

  “Emily.”

  She went rigid at the sound of her name.

  “Yes, Emily. What if she puts two and two together? You should not have hired outside. You took her on because she’s a dolly bird.”

  “What was I meant to do? Michelle left and I needed a technologist. She’s qualified.”

  “Now who’s being short-sighted. If she runs to the police or tells anyone, we are in scolding water. She asked me the other day why she hasn’t seen the last patient before.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That he died on arrival at the NHS hospital, was a donor and they needed us to perform the surgery. What else could I?”

  “No. You said the right thing. You’re right. I’ll deal with her. No—I’ll get our friends to deal with her, they have this sort of experience.”

  Emily’s heartbeat skyrocketed through the surrealism. Did they mean what it sounded like?

  Shelia said, “Right, I am going home. A bottle of red awaits.”

  Emily’s heart jumped into her throat as the kettle whistled and then clicked.

  A few seconds later the door to the room Emily was in opened to reveal Shelia’s silhouette. For a few moments, no one spoke. Michael appeared behind Shelia.

  A few moments of eerie stillness.

  He said, “Looks like we’ll have to do it ourselves after all.”

  Ciara could feel the surreptitious glances in her direction as the melodic music swept through her. It had been over seven hours since the coffeeshop, and the effect of the joint had long worn off.

  She wore an emerald green cut-out sheath dress that revealed her cleavage and hips. Connor stood beside her with a dark blue v-neck pulled over a cream collared shirt, dark jeans and heeled shoes.

  Very handsome, she thought. She had been noticing his looks more too—the eyes, they looked into her but with a hint of fun never far away.

  Ciara’s type—despite herself—was the tall, dark and built. She knew where she stood on the ladder of looks and that she could pretty much get any man she wanted.

  Connor, while definitely strong, fit and athletic, was not huge or ripped and with her wearing her heels tonight, they were around the same height.

  He touched her lightly on her bare hip to get her attention. “He’s on the top floor, but I wouldn’t mind having a drink before we go up.”

  She put her lips next to his ear. “Sounds good to me. A watermelon vodka, the bar staff, will know what you want—I googled that they had it before coming. Leave me here, and I’ll see who’s eyes are on you when they should be on me.”

  Connor smirked and made his way to the bar. She looked around and saw a shaven-headed suit looking down at him over a glass balcony. She avoided eye contact with the patrons looking at her.

  She looked over at the bar and saw the pretty barmaid laughing at something Connor had said. It perturbed her when she felt a jolt of jealousy—the prick.

  He came back with the two watermelon vodkas.

  “I see. I get to introduce you to something now.”

  “I’ll try anything once—apart from incest or country dancing.”

  “Well, definitely not country dancing.”

  Connor smiled. “Take it you saw baldy eyeing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s one of Van Der Saar’s. Let’s our way up or else he’ll be insulted.”

  They began to climb the stairs and the glass door opened for them. The bald man greeted Connor politely, “Mr Reed, welcome. I apologise, I must search you.”

  “No apologies necessary,” Connor said as he formed a human crucifix. The man put Connor’s hand on his shoulder before beginning to pat him down. When he finished Connor leant forward and said something quietly to him.

  The man nodded what appeared to Ciara to be his thanks. He then indicated for Ciara to open her large, cream handbag, and after a quick but thorough search, gestured for her to close it again. Using a retractable baton, he traced the inside of her thighs before nodding his satisfaction that she was ‘clean’.

  A voice cut across the room, “Connor—come, why did you make me wait?”

  The willowy, middle-aged man came across and embraced him before he could answer. He still had the younger man’s shoulders clasped as Connor replied, “Wanted to take in the ambience of your establishment first. Very nice it is too.”

  The man chortled. “Now, who is this beautiful lady?”

  “This is Ciara my friend and business partner.”

  “I very much doubt that a lady like this is merely your friend that it is out of choice.”

  “I know—she’s desperate to make it official.”

  The man turned to her and clasped her hand. “Our friend is the antithesis of the saying ‘it is not how others see you, it’s how you see yourself’.”

  “That is a fitting description, Mr Van Der Saar.”

  “Please, you call me Raymond,” he said, pronouncing the ‘mond’ like pond.

  “A pleasure Raymond.”

  Ciara caught Connor’s cross between a frown and a smile at her flirtatious manner—good.

  Van Der Saar led them into a booth. Ciara was surprised that it was just the three of them. She noticed the watchful minders keeping an unobtrusive distance.

  “How is Amsterdam treating you both?” asked Van Der Saar, aiming the question at Ciara.

  “Great, thank you. Connor showed me the benefits of a coffeeshop—one word.”

  “He did, did he? Do not enjoy it too much. Chemical alterations should remain pleasurable enhancements, not destructive dependencies.”

  “A businessman with a moral code are you?”

  “I am not above making a profit.”

  “I do not doubt the purity of your motives Raymond. Though I suppose distributing a dependable and quality product also makes business sense, especially given the nature of our business.”

  Van Der Saar looked at Con
nor. “I can see now why she is your business partner, my friend.”

  Connor smiled. “Quite. I have another business partner who I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Yes, of course. A powerful man is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve had certain people gather information on this individual. I think we could do business. Let us now discuss the details, and we can get on with enjoying ourselves, my friends.”

  “Of course,” said Connor.

  “As you have no doubt heard, I am in a conflict with certain elements of the ‘Moroccan Mafia’, as they like to call themselves.”

  “I heard some rumours. Aren’t they in the human trafficking business now?”

  “So I have heard. Horrible business—using humans like commodities. Feeding off the desperation of people.”

  “The value of human existence is lower from that part of the world.”

  “And you still accept responsibility for transportation of my product knowing I have bad blood with them?”

  “People like us are always going to have enemies. Although, I do not underestimate them. I’ll keep vigilant.”

  “Good. So what do you think of your new business partner.”

  “Very shrewd, very…shall we say, business reliable? You say that you’ve looked into him.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have dealt with a mutual acquaintance of his and I’s, one that I believe is involved in the trafficking of humans. It’s not something I wanted to be involved in. What I am asking, is have you discovered if our friend is involved in that sort of enterprise?”

  Raymond regarded Connor for a moment. “A cruel way to make a living to be sure. Not something I condone naturally. However, very few people in our world are innocent Connor, and you’ll brush against these people.”

  “I realise that, but this isn’t the standard sex trade or slave labour. It’s trafficking for their organs.”

  “Oh. I understand. A more profitable enterprise if one knows the right people.”

  “More profitable?”

  “Of course. An average sex worker could generate around fifty thousand of your pound Stirling over the course of her ‘career’. A single kidney could cover that. And a heart much more.”

  “Could he have links to it you think.”

  Van Der Saar replied, “Trafficking humans into the UK is not an easy thing to do. They come from an array of different countries having to pass through a range of transit countries. Documentation has to stand up to scrutiny. From my knowledge, trafficked humans arrive in some of your smaller airports, especially in Scotland. Flights to and from Dundee and Amsterdam were cancelled as a result of your National Crime Agency. The media never had knowledge of this.”

  “You didn’t answer my question?”

  “Listen my friend, I do not know. I could investigate maybe. However, the deal is, is that if I find anything out, that you get me an equally reliable distributor, and you waive your fee.”

  “Deal.”

  Emily froze for a second, before the implication of ‘We’ll have to do it ourselves after all’ hit the prehistoric part of her brain.

  The Kettle. She grabbed it, ripped the lid off and slung it in the direction of the pair.

  It caught Shelia in the face. She bolted back screaming, firing into Michael. This created the gap Emily needed to escape, and she plunged out of it.

  She flew down the corridor not daring to look back. She heard the galloping footsteps behind her and Michael’s voice shouting, “Stop!”

  She glanced back—relief—he looked ungainly and was breathing hard. She was increasing the gap. Around this corner through the door and she’d be free into the outside.

  It dawned on her before she reached the door like a punch to the stomach—her key-card was back in her handbag. And she had left her handbag back in her room.

  She got to the door—locked.

  She whirled around and screamed in panic. He was bearing down on her and instinct took over.

  She attacked him, kicking, punching, and clawing. He seemed taken back. She was winning.

  She made a move around him, wrenching her ankle away from his grasp. She ran.

  There was a man without a hospital uniform—huge in height and width with blond hair. She ran to him wailing, “Help. I am trying to escape, there’s a man around the corner—”

  The punch knocked her out.

  19

  Her trembling acted as a battery sending zaps of pleasure through Ethan Steyn. It signified her surrender to his power that he had first taken with the punch.

  It pleased him to know that it had been his restraint in throwing the punch half-force allowed her to cling to life, for that was true power—the control of life and death over others.

  Steyn, though knew that she would not be waking up anytime soon, allowed the slug of man from whom she had escaped to administer a sedative. Steyn had instructed him to inject on the web between a pair of the toes.

  Now, four hours later, he and the girl—Emily—were in her kitchen facing one another. He found her face intriguing—one half uncommonly pretty, and the other swollen, distorted and already blackening.

  He looked around and sneered. Pictures of her and presumably her partner, as well as other relations, adorned the walls. Placards espousing the importance of living for the moment, and family were hung over the door and stuck to the refrigerator. He smirked at the voice in his mind,—where is your family now? Enjoy living in this moment, Emily.

  Her croaking voice broke his thoughts, “What do you want?”

  He looked at her wincing face and laughed, “I want you to be a good girl.”

  She took a moment to reply, “How?”

  He smiled, “I want you to dance for me.”

  Her breath hitched in her throat, “H-h-here?”

  “Yes, that right.”

  “Why?”

  Her questions threw spikes of annoyance through him, “Because I like to Jol—to have fun—now, stop with your questions or you won’t be having much fun at all.”

  His heart soared as he saw the tear break over her swollen cheek as she shakily stood—I’ve broken her.

  She began her awkward gyrations in the serene silence. Steyn grinned looking at a picture of her and her boyfriend, faces pressed together and beaming, with the backdrop of a beach,—let him watch you dance for me.

  His interest began to ebb after a few minutes, “Bend over the chair and show me your cunt.”

  Her sob choked her, and strangulated beg came out, “Please no—don’t make me to this, please.”

  Her tears soaked her face, as her fingers worked in erratic spasms on the buttons. Eventually, the trousers slid down as she bowed over the chair. Steyn knew this was the limit of tonight’s pleasure.

  Her shoulders shook with her sobs, and he stood up. His fingers caressed her hair, “Shhhh, there’s a good girl.”

  He gripped her jaw and forced her upright. His hand still on her face, he stepped her back in line with the refrigerator.

  It would be full force this time. His massive palm careered her head off the corner of the white, hardened plastic. Her skull broke like a grapefruit, collapsing her to the floor.

  Connor and Ciara sat in the De Zotte bar. The orange glow bounced off the wooden interior giving it a cosy atmosphere. The low hum of the guests made it easy to talk, which is why Connor had brought Ciara here. Van Der Saar, had called Connor back when they were just about to leave his club, and they had a brief discussion.

  “What had he wanted earlier when he called you back?” asked Ciara.

  “Said he liked you and I should keep hold of you.”

  It was 00.36, and they were both sipping coffee after polishing off a rib eye steak.

  “So, what do you think? Think he was holding back anything?” asked Ciara.

  “I didn’t see any indications that he was lying. But who knows—no one can consistently tell if someone is lying or not just by observation alone
despite what Don Vincenzo says.”

  “Don Vincenzo?”

  “He’s a character played by Christopher Walken in ‘True Romance’. Best scene in the film.”

  “I see,” she replied. “What are the indications then? Of lying I mean?”

  “Why? Did you miss that part in training?”

  “Just confirming my knowledge. You know that revision helps solidify the information. Or did you miss that in training?”

  He laughed and said, “Sometimes liars use less hand or finger movements, maintain unnatural eye contact—all to make them appear less shifty. Lying involves more cognitive processes so they may hesitate or stutter—but then that could be because they are nervous. Spontaneously correcting themselves could indicate they are telling the truth as a liar already has the lie formed before telling it to you. It’s a dark art, but I don’t think it’s a science. You’re best looking for any motivation they have to lie, and I can’t see why Van Der Saar would.”

  “He seems to like you.”

  “I think he does, I think his whole friendly demeanour is genuine—he’s a people person. But it has also caused him to be underestimated by literally hundreds of people. It’s a bit like that ‘It’ the clown v Ronald McDonald meme—no one is scared of jovial Ronald, but he’s probably killed thousands of people.”

  Ciara smirked. “So Var Der Saar is like a deadly clown?”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy.”

  “So, we might not be any closer to discovering who these people are.”

  “All we can do is what we can do. Keep making plays, and something will come up. Another thing to be aware of is these Moroccans. Their value of life is a lot lower, believe me,” he said, thinking of an incident when on holiday in Tenerife as a nineteen-year-old. It had led to the stabbing of a British barman over four euros of change.

  “You know, you have never told me how you get Van Der Saar’s product into the UK.”

  Connor laughed. “What do you call a black man that flies a helicopter?”

  Ciara frowned and shrugged.

  “A pilot, you racist.”